Twelve
by SheFoundHerself
Summary: "We're all just walking each other home." -Ram Dass. My take on bringing El home. Future-set fic. Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing except my love for these characters.
1. Chapter 1

_"The truth is that airports have seen more sincere kisses than wedding halls, and the walls of hospitals have heard more prayers than the pews of a church." - Unknown_

* * *

He has always liked airports.

He is fascinated by them. The hustle and bustle, the constant flow of people, the thought that everybody has somewhere to be. He likes the sense of anonymity, how no one knows where anyone else is going. If he is honest, it makes him feel a little less alone.

Everything here is temporary, transitory, part of the interim. As though there is something more to come, something better. A change, a chance, a belonging.

He skims the crowd before him once more and his gaze falls on a woman with shoulder length brunette locks. Her back is to him and she sways as she stands, carrying a sleepy toddler on one hip and a diaper bag slung over her opposite shoulder. As he watches, she turns her head to press a kiss to her child's temple and he catches a glimpse of her profile.

He shakes his head and almost smiles at what he knows is his own sentimentality. His own nostalgia. His own_ absurdity._

He looks for her everywhere.

It isn't something that he does consciously, it just happens. No matter how improbable of a scenario, how unlikely of a locale, he can't help the way he searches for her. Though the odds of finding her are astronomical, he has never been able to stop looking.

"Heads up, Dad!" He glances to his left just in time to grab the large green suitcase from the conveyor belt before it drifts past.

He can feel his son's gaze on his face and he turns ever so slightly to glance over his right shoulder. At fifteen, Eli is nearly as tall as he is, so he doesn't have far to look to catch those blue eyes.

"You okay?" Eli reaches out to take the bag and adjust the height of the handle, so that he can pull it along behind them. It takes him a minute before he realizes his son has asked him a question.

"I'm fine, bud," he replies and Eli nods slowly, skeptically, as though he isn't quite convinced. He shrugs nevertheless and jerks his head away from the crowd before he starts weaving his way through the milling passengers. His son doesn't look back and he is grateful because that means Eli has faith that he will be right behind him.

He follows his son through the terminal and as Eli leads, he watches him. His son's blond hair lost the wispy baby curl long ago and has been replaced by sandy waves that mirror Rick's.

His youngest child's steps are purposeful, his strides long. The kid is built for soccer, but his heart lies on the football field. He doesn't wonder where his son got his love of the game. Eli knows that he played in high school and the kid uses that as ammunition every chance he gets to build his case against his mother that he should be allowed to try out next year. His sophomore year.  
Both he and Eli enjoy watching the pros, but they share a passion for college football. This is their favorite time of the year. _September_: the beginning of the season.

That's where they have just come from: Clemson, South Carolina. Eli's favorite team, his favorite school, his favorite coach. His son is hellbent on becoming a Tiger and he will never bet against his youngest child's indomitable will.

The kid's spirit reminds him of her. Eli has an enthusiasm and an inner strength that he knows didn't come from himself or Kathy. He likes to think that on the day his son was born, the first person that held him gave him the gift of a strength that mirrors her own.

"Which gate, Dad?" Eli calls out over his shoulder. He glances down at the printed tickets in his hand.

"Twelve," he replies and the significance doesn't escape him. He has a thing with numbers. There are certain ones that seem to appear over and over in his daily life and twelve is one of them.

Jesus had twelve apostles. Henry Fonda had twelve angry men. His oldest son has been overseas for twelve months to the day. His home in Rochester, Washington is exactly two thousand nine hundred and twelve miles from Manhattan, give or take a few feet. He spent a little more than twelve years by her side and he has gone for a little more than twelve years without her.

_Twelve._

It is a number he has come to associate with endings, with finality. He wonders if he will ever be able to come to connect it with something different, something filled with hope.

* * *

She has always hated airports.

They make her nervous and Pittsburgh International is no different. All the hustle and bustle and the frenetic pace of the crowds combine to put her on edge.

She has never thought of herself as a claustrophobic person, but closing herself and her son into a several ton metal tube and blasting through the air isn't exactly something that she considers to be within her comfort zone. They are twenty-seven minutes into their hour and twelve minute layover and she is trying to occupy her mind, so that she doesn't count every second until they are back in the air and on the descent into Newark.

She shivers once before she wraps her burgundy sweater tighter around herself and hunches forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. The sound of the miniature soccer ball scuffing against the floor just behind her is consistent and so she gives herself permission to close her eyes, just for a moment.

She imagines the gentle press of his palm against the nape of her neck, weighted, warm, soothing. She knows that his blue eyes would hold the sweetest mixture of concern for her with just a hint of playful teasing, but his grin would be reassuring. He would tell her not to worry, ask her to have a little faith, offer her his shoulder to rest upon, his hand to grip during take off when she can not believe that she is ten thousand feet in the air and climbing, climbing, climbing.

She shakes her head and almost smiles because she does this sometimes, more often than not, if she is honest with herself. She pretends that he is with her, beside her. She imagines his expressions, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hands. To this day, she talks to him as though he is a cross between an invisible childhood friend and her patron saint of everything.

She laughs aloud at the thought and the sound must reach her son because she watches as he dribbles his soccer ball back around the side of the long row of chairs to come to stand in front of her.

"You okay, Mom?" Noah asks, grinning eagerly as though he thinks she is going to let him in on a terrific joke.

"I'm fine, hon," she assures him with a smile as she reaches out to smooth his dark curls back from his forehead.

Her son is tall for ten and is a whirl-wind of athletic ability. He plays basketball, tennis, and soccer at school. Noah is happy, and funny, and as well-adjusted as she could ever even begin to hope for. He is smart, and inquisitive, and brave. He has a temper and a stubborn streak that she secretly loves, because it reminds her of herself and of someone else, too. He has a big heart and a deep sense of what is right and wrong and she couldn't be prouder of him if she tried.

Noah is constant movement, but he will slow down for one activity: to read.

Her son loves books and she is grateful because it is another magical coincidence that she shares with him. Harry Potter is his latest fictional obsession and the reason behind their trip. Orlando's Wizarding World of Harry Potter, their destination. She started reading the books to him two years ago until one bittersweet day, at the ripe old age of nine, when Noah declared that he was old enough to read them on his own. She has read each of the books too, right after him, and she thinks that she could probably hold her own in a Hogwarts trivia contest.

She has spent the last two days walking around Diagon Alley, buying over-priced Butterbeer, carrying Noah's Hufflepuff robe over her arm each time the weather became too warm for him to wear it, and savoring every precious minute with him. Her son just started fifth grade and between homework and after-school sports, her time to take him on adventures is limited, so she grabs every chance she can get. This long weekend has been the perfect time to surprise him with a packed suitcase and plane tickets as soon as he jumped off the bus on Friday afternoon.

She grins at the thought that this is who she is now, someone who doesn't think twice about taking off on a sunny weekend getaway with her son. She surprises herself sometimes with how much she has changed since she became a mother.

She smiles because she likes to think that _he_ would be proud of her for taking time away, for doing something with her family. She imagines the way he would lean back in his seat, rest his strong arm on the back of her chair, and grin at her. She imagines the way he would shake his head in affectionate amazement, the ocean of his eyes, the timbre of his voice.

_You did good, Liv._

There are moments when her chest aches, when she wonders if he would recognize her, and if she would still be able to surprise him, too.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**_Never thought I'd be taking my fifteen year old on a college visit, but that's what the trip turned out to be. Eli loved it. I'd never say this out loud, but I'd be lying to you if I said I wasn't half hoping he wouldn't like it - being so far away for school - but what the hell do I know? I was in the service by the time I was eighteen. He's a good kid. Wish you could see him..._**

He looks up from the spiral-bound notebook in his lap at the sound of his son's third exasperated sigh over the course of the last ten minutes and he can't hide his amused grin. Neither of them are used to sitting still for this long...at Hartsfield-Jackson this morning, on the plane, and now as the glowing electronic panel in the terminal has informed them their flight is delayed by an hour.

The blessing of the delay is that terminal twelve is empty and the adjoining seating area for gates ten and eleven are nearly so. He follows his son's gaze across the open space toward where a kid dribbles a small soccer ball across the floor a dozen rows of seats away.

"You don't have to babysit me, you know?" He teases mildly, reaching across the seat to prod Eli's knee with his pen.

His son smirks as he stretches his arms above his head before he stands.

"I don't know 'bout that. Considering there are plenty of extra planes and you've got the skills to get us the heck outta here." He motions toward the large windows behind them where a fleet of small aircraft sit in a hangar.

He grins up at his child. "Don't think Pittsburgh International lets people just _borrow_ planes."

Eli shrugs nonchalantly in a way that makes him look almost identical to his older brother.

"I mean, we'll return it at home."

He fleetingly wonders whether he should be worried about the casual way that his son is discussing grand theft aircraft before -

"Heads up! Sorry!"

He turns just in time to see the soccer ball ricochet off one of the seats and roll toward them. Eli jogs forward and stops the ball expertly with his toe. He dribbles it between his feet for a few passes before he bends and picks it up, tossing it its owner. "Here you go."

"Thanks! Sorry about that," the boy says shyly as he catches the ball. The kid wears a gray Hogwarts sweatshirt and an impish grin.

Leaning back in his chair, he watches the boys take each other in. For as fair as Eli is, this kid is the polar opposite. He has dark unruly locks and light eyes. He can tell that despite the kid's height, he is younger than Eli by a few years. In any other circumstance, the two probably wouldn't have been drawn to each other, but in this moment…

"You wanna kick it around?" The kid asks Eli, his voice lilting with hopefulness.

His son surprises him when he tosses a look his way over his shoulder, as if to ask for permission. He hates that he knows where his son's hesitation comes from. It has been a decade and his child is still wary of leaving him alone.

"Go," he urges. "Your old man's not gonna go lookin' for trouble."

Eli nods and he doesn't miss the knowing glance that his child gives the notebook that rests against his thigh. His son knows what he uses this for and the sight of it seems to give him the permission he is seeking.

"E, just watch out for people," he reminds him.

Eli gives a wave of his hand, which he isn't sure whether he is supposed to take as a _yes sir_ or a _whatever, Dad._

"I'm Noah," he hears the boy say cheerfully. He watches as Eli offers his hand to shake, but he misses his son's reply because his cell phone rings from inside his sweatshirt pocket.

His daughter is speaking before he has the phone pressed to his ear. "Dad!"

"Hi baby," he greets her. "You okay?"

"I feel like I should be asking you. Do you know how long you have to wait?" He ignores the anxious edge to Elizabeth's voice and takes a deep breath.

"Just 'bout an hour, hon. We're fine here," he assures her as he leans forward in his seat to stretch his back. "Your brother made a friend. He's up kicking a soccer ball 'round with some kid from Hogwarts and-"

"What?" The sound of her amusement in his ear is sweet.

He grins before he realizes that she can't see him. He glances over his left shoulder toward where the boys have spread out across an empty bank of seats to pass the ball back and forth to each other. The boys are talking and while he is far enough away that he can't hear their exchange, he is close enough that he doesn't miss the sound of his son's laughter.

"Yeah, this kid wearing a Harry Potter sweatshirt has a ball and he and E are playing."

He sets his notebook down onto an empty seat nearby as he pushes against the armrest and lifts himself out of the seat to stand. He smooths his palm over his rough jaw, where the day old stubble is forming.

He makes his way around the row of seats toward the windows where he can watch the planes. A small passenger plane is coming in for a landing just as a huge jet taxis toward a runway.

The movement here is ceaseless. Airports never really sleep and he finds a comfort in the constant ebb and flow.  
The arrivals and the departures are inevitable, like the tide. The journey itself is what lies in question, what hangs in the balance.

His daughter is talking to him and he thinks that he better listen because he is sure that whatever she is saying is important, but his attention is caught by a movement from the boys. He watches as Noah turns and eagerly waves to someone who must be approaching just behind him.

"Hi Mom! Come meet my friend, Eli!"

He knows he should turn to greet the kid's mother, but something holds him to the spot: the expression on his own son's face. Eli's light brow is furrowed, his head tilted in a posture of cautious hesitancy.

When his son meets his gaze, his blue eyes are round and full of something that he can't quite define.

He hears it then. Her voice. The sound he could recognize over the din of a packed bus station, a driving midnight thunderstorm in the sedan, and across the chasm of their desks in another life...

"I'm coming, hon!"

He can't control the way his pulse picks up, the way his throat suddenly feels tight and achy, the way he isn't sure whether or not he is still breathing. He tears his gaze away from his son's and he watches as she moves past him on the opposite side of the terminal. Her back is to him now. Her brunette bob cascades to her chin and it obscures his view of her profile, but the line of her spine is graceful, the curve of her shoulder, elegant. The movement of her walk is familiar. He watches like a ghost as she makes her way toward the boys...her son and his.

"Daddy, are you all right?" His daughter's voice cuts through to his ear.

"Call you back, Liv - Liz," he rasps automatically. He listens to his daughter's intake of breath at the sound of his slip-up before he hangs up on his child. At the same moment, across the slowly filling terminal, she takes in his son and she must understand something because she is turning now. Her dark eyes are wide in the moment that they meet his own. When she speaks, she calls him by a name that hasn't belonged to him in twelve years.

"_Elliot_."

* * *

**Author's note: Thank you so much for reading. More to come...**


End file.
